Black Ink, Immortal Words
by Burnout Black
Summary: These are the stories we grew up listening to at night, tucked safely in bed, our eyes closing to the soft murmur of goddesses, gods, and the mortals who loved. These are the legends that everyone knows. o3: She never meant to consume them.
1. the dying light

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Bleach. I write because I love to write.

**Summary: **Once upon a time, the Gods played a game of Fate that erased the sun and blackened the moon. _(She destroys, He creates, and the Love between them continues forever more)._

**Pairings: **Ichigo/Rukia, Zangetsu/Sode no Shirayuki, Kaien/Rukia, Byakuya/Rukia (if you squint ridiculously hard and wear giant shipper goggles), one-sided Shinso/Sode no Shirayuki

**Author's Note: **These chapters will all be one-shots essentially and stand alone. They are not part of the same timeline or timeframe—think of this as a giant book of fairytales or myths, much like ones that children read all the time. As a result, the pairings and summaries will change for each chapter, so there will be something in this for everyone. This particular chapter won 2nd place at the bleachness community fanfiction contest for v-day. Needless to say, I'm rather fond of this particular tale. I've written three to four other Bleach pieces and I'll post them in spaces over the next few weeks, so look forward to it! As always, comment are greatly cherished.

* * *

**o1**

_They say that a long, long time ago…_

"Let's play a game, Zangetsu." She twirled a strand of pale blue hair in between her fingers, eyes focused on the man by her ivory throne. He leaned against the armrest casually and didn't answer for a long while, but she didn't care for things like time. They were Immortals. Goddess of Destruction and God of Creation. Time was child's play.

"Why now?" He finally spoke, voice subdued. She thought it almost wonderfully ironic, that the humans would associate the sun with vitality and the moon with the stillness of its night. Zangetsu was the black sun of Heaven, silent but methodical. She was the white moon, rash and wild. "And why, of all things, a game?" He added as an afterthought, turning his blank gaze on her face.

She shrugged elegantly. "Do you see them?" It was a rhetorical question, Zangetsu saw everything and missed nothing. "In their houses devoid of light, they sleep. Tomorrow, they will wake up to a false sun and some of them will die while others will be born." She paused, her tone carefully neutral. "We are Gods, you and I. You can create anything but yourself and I can destroy anything but myself. It's mundane. Our existence is never changing." She allowed herself to sound bitter for just a moment, just a little while.

He caught onto it. He always did. She never was able to hide her thoughts from him. "What will we play then, Sode no Shirayuki?" He was humoring her, going along with her whims because there was nothing else to do as the world slumbered beneath their apathetic gazes. She frowned and shifted in her throne so that her head was resting against his back, cloud-spun silk falling in soft waves against her legs as her movements finally stilled.

"A puppet game." She closed her eyes. "Let us each pick a human and grant the poor mortal a taste of our own power." It wasn't forbidden. It had been done before--just never with them. Her ability to destroy anything was too dangerous and his ability to create everything from the ashes of nothing was too valuable. But now she was bored and he was complacent and perhaps they could toy with the very people that they were to watch over. Perhaps. "I have always wanted to know…" She trailed off and laughed. "Between the two of us, who would survive in a fight to the end? Would I be able to break you down and shatter your heart or would you be able to save yourself by creating mercy from my hands? And if you could, would I be able to sever that mercy from my soul?"

"Impossible." He interrupted and turned around so that she could see his face. "It would be impossible for us to perish apart from each other. If the black sun sinks, the white moon will be engulfed by the night."

"I know." Simply stated. "But with humans, neither of us would die. And it will only be a small touch of power, a slight taste of it. I will place a shard of my soul in the mortal I choose and watch from afar. Surely you wouldn't let someone with the ability to destroy wander free and ignorant on the ground?"

He was silent, but she knew that she had won. "One game." He murmured and reached down to intertwine their hands together. "I never could refuse you."

She smiled--unrestrained, uncontrollable. It was a wild sort of beauty she had. Fierce and untamed. Zangetsu would never know that she could never act without him.

…_the Gods played a game of Destiny that erased the sun and blackened the moon._

_

* * *

  
_

**the dying light**

"Renji, this way!"

She grabbed his hand and yanked him into a small alleyway, muffling his loud protests by shoving his head into the ground. "You idiot!" She hissed, violet eyes flashing with annoyance. "We've been stealing for five years together and you _still _can't stick to my plan? I told you to run here. What were you _doing_?" There was another set of unintelligible but amusing sounds from her red-haired friend. She briefly thought about keeping her hand firmly planted on his head, but decided she wanted an answer more than she wanted to torment him. Well, for now. It would be a different story later.

"Your instructions sucked!" Renji spluttered, throwing a peach in her direction. She caught it and stared dubiously at the many holes that marked the soft skin of the fruit. Holes meant insects, which meant worms. As poor and underfed as the two of them were, she wasn't desperate enough to start eating bugs. Yet. Absentmindedly, she lobbed the fruit back at Renji where it hit him square in the forehead. "Oy! I went through all this trouble and you're not even going to eat it?!" He howled, taking a vicious bite out of the rejected fruit as if pretending that it tasted good was the best way to get back at her.

"I went through all this trouble to set up the perfect plan and you didn't even use it!" She countered, folding her arms underneath her chest. "And for your information, my instructions were just fine!"

He jabbed a dirty finger in her direction and covered her next words with his own loud retort. "When you're done stealing from Dirty Stall-Keeper #2 and Guy-Who-Doesn't-Take-Showers #1, run into the alley!" He mimicked, voice embarrassingly high. She ignored the mocking way he was batting his eyelashes. At least he remembered her words. "How was I supposed to know you meant this alley and not the other alley down the street?"

Damn. He had a point there. She frowned and looked away petulantly. "Fine. Next time I'll be clearer." Like hell she was going to apologize. They didn't do apologies. They did awkward gestures and fake coughs. It was their own code. She heard him sigh resignedly and was completely surprised at the apple that hit her in the arm. It rolled away from her when it reached the ground and she bent down to pick it up.

It wasn't bad. As far as apples went, this one looked really decent.

"Dirty Stall-Keeper #2 was switching shirts in the back. Even he thought his current one was too muddy for customers. He was gone long enough for me to actually look at what I was grabbing. I'm no good at picking apples, but I thought that one seemed alright." He rubbed the back of his head--a nervous habit he'd had ever since they'd met five years ago.

She smiled and shined the red apple with the clean part of her shirt. "Not bad, Renji. We can split it after dinner tonight." They didn't do thank you's either.

"Ha! Found you brats!" She gave an involuntarily jerk, unable to hide the slight mix of surprise and fear creeping up in her eyes. There was a reason why she was always so careful about finding little corners and dark alleys to hide in after stealing. The storekeepers never failed to carry knives for people like them--thieves fighting against the tide just to survive another day. She cursed roughly and spun around _(how many, what weapons, fight or run…)_.

Three of them, the two storekeepers Renji had stolen from and another guy who looked like he was there just for some fun. Two knives and she didn't like the way the last guy's hands were hidden behind his back. Nobody in this part of town hid anything unless it was illegal enough to get them executed on the Emperor's orders. Murder and thievery ran rampant and unless you were stupid enough to stick your neck out to report something, you fixed your problems yourself and ignored everybody else's. She backed up and grabbed Renji's hand, fingers tapping twice on his wrist. _Run_.

"So now you're quiet after you've been caught, eh? Little girl, we don't need to hurt you. We just want that red-haired bastard next to you. Why don't you leave us men alone, before we change our minds and decide to sell you as a servant instead?" The first storekeeper said casually.

"She could fetch a pretty penny on the market." The third guy spoke up, razor-thin eyes fixing onto her face. "C'mon, don't tell me you can't tell. One of the Gods has tampered with her, just look at those violet eyes. Wonder how much we could get for selling a girl touched by the Heavens."

She could feel Renji tense up, but the situation was already bad enough without him opening his mouth and saying something that would probably get them killed or sold. She didn't hesitate and acted while the other two men were distracted, lost in their thoughts of money and gold. Her knee slammed into the first storekeeper's stomach, driving the breath right out of him as her hand delivered a vicious chop to his wrist. She grabbed the knife before it could fall to the ground and threw it behind to Renji. She wasn't good with weapons. Between the two of them, he would have a higher chance of surviving anyways.

"Go!" She yelled, ducking the second storekeeper's clumsy lunge. If they could just get out of the alleyway and into the street, they could escape without a problem. She dashed past the slumped body of the first storekeeper, avoided an inexperienced swing of the knife, and found herself face to face with a sword.

Behind her, she could hear the sound of Renji's scuffle with the second storekeeper stop. The game was up. There was no way they could beat a swordsman, much less one who held the weapon with so much confidence. "So, Heaven's little girl, why don't you come with me? I'll leave your friend alive." She stared at him and the way his sword glinted as it caught the light. He laughed at her--a cruel sound that fit his slitted eyes perfectly.

"I'm not Heaven's little girl." She bit out, her entire pose a study in defiance. "You won't get anything on the market for selling me. I'm too scrawny and too thin to be able to do manual labor. You would be better off selling someone else, _sir_." She spat the words out as if they were poison.

"How old are you?" She froze, every sense on alert, as he walked closer, still carrying that damnable sword on him. He tilted her face up with careful fingers and smiled. "Never mind answering me. I can see you won't come willingly. You're still young, thirteen or fourteen." She didn't respond. He pulled away with an air of reluctance and sheathed his weapon. "You're right. Your violet eyes are hardly going to be enough to convince the world that you're a puppet of the Gods. But give it a couple more years and you'll see what I mean."

She shook her head violently in denial. He was lying. So what if her eyes were purple? Renji's hair was flaming red but nobody ever said anything about that. This man's eyes were slitted like those of a snake and yet, he could call himself human. "Liar." She murmured and stepped back.

"I wonder which God decided to make you a part of them." He smiled one last time and waved. "You're an interesting girl. I think I'll keep an eye on you from now on." His eyes widened suddenly, revealing silver pupils and black irises. She had a feeling he was memorizing her, her face, her name, her identity, everything and anything that was a part of her. She turned as if to avoid him. Nobody was allowed to see that much of herself, those parts of her that even she couldn't understand. "Rukia, eh?" She flinched. "Nice name. I'm Ichimaru Gin, but you may call me the vessel of Shinso."

And so saying, he walked away.

Renji grabbed her hand and dragged her out into the open street. He was saying something, but she heard nothing. Why was he looking at her so urgently? He was trying to tell her something, something important. The hand gripping her wrist tightly was pressing in patterns of two. _Run. Run. Run. _

She broke out of her stupor and ran blindly with him, away from herself, away from the ruined red apple, away from that which she desperately wished to be untrue.

Away from the man who shared one soul with the God of Chance.

-----

_("Still watching her, Shirayuki? How unexpected." The serpentine man shook a finger mockingly and bent to kiss her pale, cold hand. She resisted the urge to recoil from his touch. "Could it be that you're worried about her well-being? My vessel would never harm such a tragic young girl, not when her suffering would be so much more beautiful if left alone to grow and fester." His lips stayed on her skin, each word brushing irritatingly close. "But you would know all about that, wouldn't you? You, of wild nights and godless chaos, who dared to give a mortal immortality without ties. Such a cruel person…." _

_She could not attack him. Instead, she stayed unmoving on her throne, her eyes carefully shuttered. He pushed the sleeve of her white dress away, lips moving to her wrist where they stayed for seconds, minutes, hours, days, eons. Time meant nothing. This was revolting. His touch was toxic to her. _

_"Shinso." _

_"Such a lovely person." The God of Chance murmured, withdrawing as Zangetsu approached. "How unfortunate that you share a soul with someone who will be forever alone." He tipped his hat in her direction as he turned to leave. _

_"Keep watching her, White Queen. Keep watching." _

_She shuddered.)_

-----

There was something _different_ about the way they spoke to each other now, as if there had suddenly sprung up a wall overnight, forming impermeable bricks from words. She watched Renji turn the fish over as it cooked over the fire, the flames hypnotizing against the background of a moonless night.

"You don't really believe him, do you?" Her words were unusually soft. This silence was unseemly, unnatural. The sentence she uttered, even more so. "Come on, Renji. He's just crazy, he doesn't--he's not right."

"I'm happy for you." He interrupted without looking at her. He didn't even seem to notice the fire licking dangerously close to where his hand was resting. "Humans touched by Heaven are rare." She stared at the back of his head, unable to read his thoughts for once. What was this divide? This barrier? Where was the Renji who claimed her plans sucked, who punched her when she kicked him, who dragged her through the streets to safety when she messed up? Who was this boy carelessly burning his dinner?

She laughed weakly, substituting pain for hard-bought humor. "Yeah, they're rare. Renji, are you stupid or something? There's no way I'm actually sharing a soul with one of the Gods. Haha, you had me going for a second." She picked at a stain on her shirt idly. "You're burning the fish, idio--"

"I'm not joking." Was it her imagination or did _something_ just vanish from within her? "Rukia, he's right." Something was _gone_. "You're different from me. You've always seemed a little different, even back then. I just never noticed until now." _Empty. _"Are you listening to me? Oy, Rukia. What the hell is this--ow. Rukia. Rukia. Rukia!"

She blinked mechanically.

Renji, the one who fought with her over the last fish in the fisher's rotten basket when they first met as abandoned orphans on the street. Renji, the boy with red hair. Renji, her friend. Her only friend. Her connection. Her single tie. He was…he was so distant now. And he was _happy_ for her, that she was supposed to be cursed with a God's gift, that she was to be _different_. He had never thought to look at her, to ask her.

"Shit! The fire just went out, hey Rukia, can you help me out here? What are you looking at?"

_Nothing. Empty. Empty. Empty. Run. Destroy. _

It was a moonless night. As if possessed, she reached a hand towards the shadows and pulled the darkness around her.

"Hey! What are you--fuck! You…you...."

_Silence. _

------

_(White cloud-spun silk brushed around her ankles as she stepped languidly away from the throne. Only on these nights was she allowed to leave her cage, her prison, her domain. "Ah ah, Queen. I don't think he's told you, but Zangetsu hasn't found a mortal yet. You're playing a game against yourself." _

_She smiled bitterly at the figure by her side. "No wonder I've been so bored. He should hurry up. My mortal has already awoken." _

_"I wonder why you love him so much and yet, persist in treating me so terribly." White irises against equally colorless pupils regarded her with the gaze of a blind man. "We're the same, Zangetsu and I. But if I were to choose a mortal for the both of us tonight, you would kill both vessels and end the game." _

_She placed a hand above his heart, fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt. It was a taunting move devoid of affection. "You may share his body on black nights like this, but you are not the same as him. Nameless one, you remind me of myself. Looking at you is like looking into a mirror and unfortunately, I hate what I see. I am not so narcissistic as to love my copy."_

_"No." He agreed quietly. "You are just cruel enough to hate it.")_

-----

She woke up alone. It was an unpleasant feeling.

She hadn't been by herself like this since the two-year period between the death of her sister and her first encounter with Renji. She felt distinctly hollow and weary. Gin had been right, after all. She was truly the same as him. And yesterday night, she had been foolish enough to shut Renji out and to withdraw into an unknown place. Where had the shadows of her memory taken her?

She refused to think about which Immortal had cursed her. She knew enough to realize that whatever she had received, it was far from a blessing. Nothing good could come of emptiness.

"Are you lost or something? You've been staring at that tree for at least five minutes." The guy looked to be about five years older than her and his face had a look of concern that she felt she didn't deserve. "Hey uh, are you alright? You're _really_ quiet."

"I'm fine." She replied automatically. "It's nothing."

He didn't look convinced. She wasn't surprised. Everything about her must have seemed flat to him: her voice, her lackluster appearance, even her aura. Her response had been something to fill the quiet with, two default words that appeared out of an obligation to at least answer his questions. They carried little to no real meaning. "Well, you don't look fine." He muttered a curse underneath his breath and grabbed her by the arm. "The name's Shiba Kaien and you're going to come with me."

Unable (perhaps unwilling) to meet his gaze, she found her eyes drifting to the seal embroidered on the sleeve of his shirt. _Shiba_. How had she not noticed before? His clothing was made of silk, each strand carefully dyed to a royal blue. And the seal—a mandatory sign for those who worked closely with the Emperor as equals. "I don't think your family would appreciate my presence."

He stopped abruptly. "You might be a commoner, but the Shiba family isn't one that discriminates between classes." He turned and flashed her a thumbs-up, his smile wide and charismatic. "Besides, you look like you…" A strange look crossed his face. "Ah, never mind. I'm not even sure why I'm saying all of this!"

Distantly, she wondered what she looked like to him. She abandoned the thought before anything could come of it.

------

_("You didn't honestly think that you would win by waiting for so many years just to find a vessel. Hm, Zangetsu?" For a second, she saw indecision flicker in his eyes, a moment of doubt and questioning. "He might not awaken in time, your Shiba Kaien. Rukia may well kill him before he can find the truth within himself to save the both of them." _

"_I was worried." He admitted slowly, his hand brushed against her pale forehead. She leaned into the touch slightly as he continued to speak. "If I had picked someone the same night as you had picked that girl, they might have never met. And if they had never chanced to meet, then our entire game would have a meaningless existence." He tucked a lock of her light blue hair behind her ear absentmindedly, fingers reluctantly pulling away. "I think I was being foolish." _

_Shirayuki laughed and the sound was that of wind chimes ringing gently in a breeze. "Do you know why I picked Rukia, of all the mortals roaming that pitiful excuse for a world?" She could sense his confusion and pressed on. It was about time that she gave away a few hints. "That night, fourteen years ago, there were two sisters on an empty street. One of them was left by the other to die. Someone born into loneliness cannot escape it. I wanted the abandoned infant to suffer as she grew, to bear the curse of the Gods, to allow a festering self-hatred to bloom. The more she rejects herself, the stronger her instinct will be to destroy and sever all connections that the world has with her."_

_He wasn't surprised, that much, she knew. She was a cruel Goddess, cruel in her hate and even crueler in her love. "You want to see if I can still save that which cannot be saved." It wasn't a question. _

_She tugged him into a light kiss. "That's part of it. But remember, anyone strong enough to tame destruction must have terrifying scars as well. You cannot save without being saved yourself." _

_And with those words, Zangetsu knew Kaien was fated to fail.)_

--------

Three years had passed. Enough time to make those memories of a red-haired thief fade into ashen gray pictures in her head. She was now seventeen and Kaien, the nobleman's son who had so daringly extended his hand to a girl like her, was set to be married in another hour. She wasn't troubled. The Shiba family had welcomed her kindly, setting aside a position as family servant for her so that she would have an excuse to remain with them.

"Miyako is really wonderful." She said aloud to the quiet room. It was an affirmation of what she knew to be true. Though their encounters had been few and far in between, she knew enough about Kaien's fiancée to realize that harboring ill feelings like jealousy and hatred would be useless. Miyako was a gentle and strong woman, pure from within. Rukia smiled as she rearranged the flowers for the fifth time, fingers adjusting the petals of each orchid. For the Shiba family, she would try her best to make the ceremony as beautiful as the bride. "Kaien must be very happy."

It felt a bit foolish, to talk to herself like this with only china vases and cut flowers for company. _Lonely_. Yes, it was a bit lonely, wasn't it? _Heaven's little girl_, something hissed sinisterly. She flinched.

"I told you I would watch you, Rukia." With trembling fingers, she tied a group of white lilies together. There was no way, no way that the man was really here. "You ought to have realized by now." He continued conversationally as she fought to breathe. "Your connection with the Shiba family is quite strong. After all, you love this Kaien, don't you? But he belongs to Miyako and this fairytale is about to end."

His voice was horrible. It cornered her, wrapped ropes around her neck, and laid her bare for everyone to see. Even still, she wouldn't let him get away with such a carefully concealed threat to Kaien's happiness. "Gin." She remembered his name and wished she didn't. Somehow, saying it aloud solidified his presence here, made this nightmare a twisted reality. "What do you want?"

He laid out his hands in a gesture of innocence, but the disturbing smile never left his face. "Nothing, Rukia. I just wanted to know how you were doing, to see you as you carry out the powers of your Goddess. It would have been better for you to hate Miyako. You might have been able to save her."

Save…her? She stared blindly at the flowers in her hands. Since when had they ordered marigolds for the wedding? Marigolds. _Despair_. "Dear me, you still haven't realized? The White Queen has cursed you with the ability to destroy. And inherently, you destroy anything and anyone you love before they can leave you." He smiled mockingly and waved at her before leaving the room. "Today's wedding is about to become a funeral."

_Empty. Missing. But where? _"Lady Miyako has fallen!" _No. _"Lord Kaien is heading to the chamber! Stop, Lord Kaien!" The voices were so clear in her head. She almost missed the sound of the door sliding open.

"He said you killed her. Your eyes, they're glowing. It's true, isn't it? You killed her. You." He sounded crazed, the carefree smile morphing into a fanatical grin. _Cold. Empty. Nothing. _His hand was holding onto a knife and he was running, running towards her and he wanted to kill her, wanted to murder her...

She cried as the shadows smothered him to death. _Run._

She was despicable.

------

_("Stop interfering." Her voice was icy. "I don't recall inviting you to the game, Shinso." She watched him as he watched her from behind the barrier she had set up. The burn marks on his hands and angry red cuts on his face were a proof of how much she loathed him. She was forbidden to destroy another Immortal, but she was allowed to keep herself in isolation. The pain didn't seem to reach him as he pressed another hand on the translucent wall, lightning sparking and searing his skin in whip-like shapes. "Leave." _

_He never stopped smiling. "But I haven't done anything, Sode no Shirayuki. Gin merely visited your precious toy and enlightened her. Didn't you want her to hate herself? Didn't you want the toxic flower of disgust to bloom within her heart? I just watered the poor plant. There's no need to be like this."_

"_You drove Kaien to insanity. In the second after Miyako's death, you spoke in Kaien's head. I know what your words do and I know why you spoke to him." She drew patterns in the air and wrapped thorns around the infinite barrier surrounding her and her throne. She wanted him to bleed. She wanted him to bleed and suffer as she had at his hands. If he hadn't, if Shinso hadn't used his poisonous words to corrupt Kaien's mind, the boy would have awakened. Zangetsu would have won and Rukia would have been saved. _

"_I'm merely trying to tip the scales in your favor. It's hardly fair to Zangetsu when you try so hard to lose." A thorn pierced his palm and emerged on the other side of his hand. He seemed unperturbed, staring intently instead at the person cradled in her arms. "Ah, that's right. Since they shared a soul, he must be suffering from the effects of having his vessel die. It's a pity Kaien never had the chance to awaken." _

_She carefully released the sleeping God in her arms and laid his head on her lap. The sun would be eclipsed tomorrow. "I detest you, Shinso." She would surely be chastised for doing this later, but all she cared about now was getting the Demon masquerading as a God away from Zangetsu, away from where he could see the Sun in its most vulnerable moment. _

_She allowed herself to feel everything. Hate. Anger. Guilt. Despair. She allowed it to bubble up within her slowly, allowed it to take control of her. She could not destroy Shinso… _

_But she would try her damned hardest to torture him.)_

----

When Kurosaki Ichigo was very little, he learned what it meant to protect and to be protected.

Today was the anniversary of his mother's death. He clutched the flowers in his hand tightly, crushing the thin stalks and fragile petals. The new Meiji government had done nothing to acknowledge the loss of her life due to a careless mistake. He knelt by her plain grave and placed the pitiful group of flowers on the stone. His father had already come by and no doubt, Yuzu was the one who had brushed the dust and stray rocks away from the last resting place of their mother. He allowed himself a small, fond smile that disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"_When will you stop punishing yourself for something that you had no control over?" _Tatsuki had asked on her way to buy leeks from the local farmers. She was the only one who knew why, at a time when everyone was trying to study medicine to atone for the killings of the last war, he never failed to miss his studies on this day. He hadn't answered her, hadn't bothered to say anything. There was no point in answering questions that already had a clear answer. _Never._

The sky was dark gray and ugly. Far away, the rumble of thunder intruded on the silence and cleaved the peaceful quiet in two. He welcomed it. For the past eleven years, the sun had shone on his day of memories. For the past eleven years, the world had tried to convince him to move on. But he had stayed still, eyes facing the past and unable to lift to see the future.

It had rained that day too, so long ago…

"_Okaa-san, Shisho said I needed to practice harder, but I can't get it right. I'm supposed to do this and, and I think this, and no, wait, maybe it's this? Okaa-san!"_

He had cried out of frustration (he always cried in front of her, was always weak in front of her) as they walked back home for the dojo. She had held his hand gently, guided him past a rock that he would have surely tripped on. She always did that, protected him from the small things, and he was always trying to protect her, trying and failing.

"_Ichigo, don't cry. What would Shisho say if he saw you? Don't push yourself. One day, Ichigo will be strong, ne?"_

The scent of alcohol, so noticeable even in the rain. A drunk Meiji samurai wandering, unrestrained and bored without a battle to sate the bloodlust. Pleading. A grassy meadow by a dirty river, running, he was running, he had been running. The man with the scary eyes and the sharp sword was following them. Tripping, stumbling, and a gentle voice he loved calling his name.

The dying light in her eyes.

She had shielded him with her own body and buried in his mother's last embrace, her lifeblood staining his skin and hair, he had been invisible—he had been spared.

_I-I didn't. _He was screaming out loud, animalistic fury shredding coherency. _Didn't want, didn't want. _He was crying again, crying like that day eleven years ago. _Didn't want Okaa-san to-to._ Never moving. Never moving forwards. Staying still by her side with her body buried in the ground and decaying and it was his fault. His fault. His fault. Shouldn't have run. Shouldn't have tripped. Shouldn't have.

_To die. _

Unbeknownst to him, the broken flower stems slowly began to repair themselves and the dead petals unfurled as if in bloom once more.

----

_("Why did you pick him?" She asked out of curiosity, unable to touch his shoulder to regain his attention. Her hands had been shackled to her throne since that day she'd irreversibly replaced Shinso's celestial blood with ice. Her ankles too were chained. She considered it a small price to pay for finally destroying his ability to do as he pleased. He had lost all movement and so the Heavens had punished her by removing her freedom. It was an even exchange. She didn't regret it. _

_Zangetsu's answer was swift. "You told me yourself, that in order for your vessel to be saved, I must pick someone who needs to be saved before he can save. Kurosaki Ichigo is damaged. Your Rukia is the only one who will be able to destroy his tragic connection to the past." _

_She laughed. "The Nameless One was right when he said that you never made the same mistakes twice. How do you know that he will be able to find her?" _

_He smoothed the hair back from her face gently. She was a captive of her own domain and he was her escape. "Because, Fate has said as much. If our souls are intertwined, so will theirs be inseparable.")_

----

One thousand years had already passed.

She had met a noble, taken his name, fallen in love, and left him before he could leave her. She had traveled everywhere, seen everything, and had gained nothing. And now, every time she saw her reflection in the water or in a mirror, she would always get the urge to rip out her own eyes. Those goddamn violet irises. How many nights had she cursed Sode no Shirayuki for choosing her to carry the burden of this ability? How many nights had she cursed her immortality among mortals who were born, lived, and then died?

Too many nights to count.

The only constant presence that she had was Ichimaru Gin, and even then, he had slowly changed through the years. He still came to pour salt in her wounds, yet inexplicably, he would leave right before her anger reached a snapping point. If she had the luxury of delusion, she would have thought him afraid. But that was preposterous. The bastard feared no one.

In the distance, someone screamed—a raw sound, rough and primal. Her feet stopped moving and she lifted her head towards the rain. It was best not to get involved in someone else's burdens. It was best not to care. These things resolved themselves eventually: broken hearts, broken people, broken stories. Life was a lesson in moving on. But even as she reassured herself that it was useless to get involved, she found herself moving in the direction of the scream. Her umbrella was cheap and soaked to the core, but she kept it open for the sake of keeping away questions. A girl with tinted glasses and a folded umbrella during a thunderstorm walking by herself would draw too much attention.

She walked past weeping willows, abandoned benches, and a myriad of people with their heads ducked to avoid the rain. It was almost funny how she had never been really sure of anything in her life before, but that she was so sure she knew where her feet were taking her now. The sign that hung by a post declared the place she was entering a sacred one—the domain of the dead and those who mourned them.

She found him there, a twenty-year old man living in the past as a nine-year old boy. He was shivering and his eyes held a look that she was all too familiar with. She moved quietly to stand next to him, her hands gently closing the umbrella. She, too, wanted someone to share the rain with, wanted the coldness to seep into her bones, wanted to grieve in complete silence.

Wanted to wait for the rain to finally stop.

---

_("She will destroy his most important connection." Shirayuki murmured, half-lidded eyes gazing at the scene below. "But he will create a new connection with her to replace it."_

_Zangetsu said nothing, but only because there was nothing to be said. This was Destiny.)_

----

"Those flowers…" She murmured when at the rain had finally slowed to a small drizzle. "They're growing."

He turned in surprise to the woman who had dared to grieve beside him. At some point in time, she had removed her tinted glasses. Now that he was really seeing her, he was stunned. Her eyes were a dark, incomprehensible shade of purple. Impossible. There were myths and legends that everyone knew, and the most famous of them spoke of a female with lilac eyes who was cursed by the White Queen to forever destroy those around her. _Impossible._

She moved past him and knelt, unmindful of the fact that the mud was dirtying her soaked kimono. Her slender fingers nudged one of the petals gently, familiarity in every line and curve of her arm. He wondered if she had done the same thing years ago, bent to touch a delicate a flower with hands that trembled as they did now.

"But, they can't be!" He denied it. The flowers were dead, cut from where the flower shop had grown them. He had crushed them with his very hands in a fit of emotional distress.

She turned and smiled enigmatically. He felt a sudden emptiness in his chest, a vacancy behind his ribs, by and between the lungs. _Fill it._ The weight on his shoulders was gone. His feet were no longer shackled to the ground. _Replace this hole. _He could walk forward once more, uninhibited by the ghosts of the past. _Create. _

He drew the light breaking beyond the clouds around her, saw the shadows she put up fade into the nothing that they were created from, and knew.

It would never rain again.

----

_They say that a long, long time ago…_

_There was a love that could rebuild itself even after it was destroyed._


	2. 1933 side: a

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Bleach. I write because I love to write.

**Summary: **Leningrad is both a place of beauty and loneliness.

**Pairings: **Ichigo/Rukia, Hitsugaya/Rukia (one-sided), Hitsugaya/Hinamori (one-sided), Aizen/Hinamori

**Author's Note: **Written for fairheartstrife, I wanted this to be a one-shot, but it refused. Alternate universe, for confused readers who are wondering why something bleach-related is in the Soviet Union. I tried to research as much as I could to keep this realistic, but I'm aware that I might have overlooked something. Feel free to point any issues out. There will be a second part to this.

**1933**

_Leningrad, Soviet Union_

The winter was long and harsh this year, drawing trembling limbs together with soft, visible breaths against dark skies. He buttoned the final button on his well-worn coat, lifting the garment so that it covered the bottom half of his face. The feeling was suffocating—inhaling and exhaling the same air over and over again, but it kept him warm, and really, that was all that mattered.

He wrapped a thick, wool scarf around his neck and tugged at the lopsided hat on his head, wishing that the fabric would at least _try_ to cover his exposed ears. But alas, no. The hat obstinately shifted up again. He muttered a brief curse and clumsily shoved the ticket into his pocket with gloved fingers.

_Meet me at the Imperial Ballet performance of Swan Lake tonight! – Momo_

The note had said, carelessly crumpled up and shoved into his door slot along with an equally distressed ticket to said event. He had debated over the damn thing for close to an hour. On one hand, she had been his childhood friend once _(he owed her that much, at least)_. On the other, she had been the source of his affections and then his frustrations when she chose to fly into the arms of a rich, well-to-do Japanese man on business close to a year ago. They hadn't talked since then.

He had decided to go, for no other reason than that the note said 'me' and not 'we'. Perhaps, her newest lover would not be present. He would take the opportunity to bring all these unnecessary feelings on his part to a close, like the final curtain call on a grand play.

Hitsugaya Tōshirō didn't believe in leaving around loose ends.

With a final decisive nod _(more to assure himself than to assure the forlorn door staring back at him)_, he twisted the knob open and walked into the harsh welcome of winter in the Soviet Union.

The sudden gust of chilling air blew the scrap of paper from his desk onto the floor and into the dying embers of his fireplace, where it lay, curled up and blackening around the edges.

By the time the door shut _(with a note of finality)_ behind him, the lovely script of Hinamori Momo was already fading.

In time, it would become ash.

* * *

The line to the entrance was barely there by the time he arrived, five minutes before the start of the ballet. In front of him, a well-built young man carrying snowdrop flowers in a bouquet kept shuffling anxiously from left foot to right then left again. It was almost laughable, the way the poor man tried (and failed) to retrieve the ticket from an inner pocket with hands enclosed in thick fabric, while vainly attempting to keep the flowers aloft.

"Here. Let me help." Hitsugaya supposed it was boredom that saw him extend a hand to carry the bouquet of battered snowdrops. "At this rate, we will both be late for the opening act." He told himself his actions had nothing to do with a very familiar image of himself in his dreams, clutching flowers for a girl who would never see him, had never been able to see him….

"Thank you!" A sigh of relief, some more fumbling, and finally a flash of white on a ticket like a flag of triumph. "I'm sorry for the trouble."

He gave the flowers back quickly and waved away the words of gratitude. "No, it was nothing. Like I said, if I hadn't volunteered to help, we both would have been stuck outside freezing." He paused, locking gazes with the tall stranger, surprised to find almost amber eyes contemplating him in silence. _Amber_. A strange color, no stranger than his own teal-flecked irises. But still odd, somehow, in Leningrad—where everything was white and solitude and quiet.

"Who are they for?" He found himself asking finally.

"Someone special." Amber glittered bright underneath dim streetlights. And though there wasn't a wide, beaming smile or the telltale upward curve of the lips, Hitsugaya knew the man was happy. "She's Odette."

_Odette?_ _The leading dancer in the whole ballet, Odette? Tragic, beautiful, lovely Odette?_

His mouth opened, but the questions he had were never asked. The stranger, as if suddenly aware of the time, tipped his hat and disappeared into the stage's hallway.

Hitsugaya turned reluctantly away from the entrance to hand his own pass over to the disgruntled and irritated ticket marker. "Did you, by any chance, see a woman by the name of Hinamori pass through here?"

A grunt. "Yes. Handed me her ticket with a pretty-as-can-be smile."

He almost smiled at that—after all, didn't it sound so much like her? Naïve and sweet. But he caught the smile before it could fully form and his feet slowly walked towards the large, oaken doors.

"You're too late!" The ticket marker barked out, ink-smudged fingers flipping over an old, old newspaper. "She's with someone else."

He paused for a moment _(just a moment)_, and kept walking. He had been foolish to imagine she would come to such an event by herself. Momo was no longer the young girl of his past, and with time, he was beginning to realize his mistakes. The Momo of Leningrad danced on small stages, sipped at wine that wasn't cheap _(but wasn't expensive either)_, and willingly gave up ambition to be content.

A stranger. His childhood friend was now a complete stranger.

The warmth of the theatre pushed his thoughts away. He could hear the strings of the orchestra vibrate through the walls as he slipped off his hat, unbuttoned his well-worn jacket, and stuffed the handmade scarf into an unused pocket.

With consideration that he never knew he had, Hitsugaya grasped a golden handle and pulled the door open quietly. He made no sound as he stole into the darkness to take his seat next to the aisle, save for the brushing of his coat against hardened wood. A few heads turned briefly—one lady made a face that clearly told him just how _rude_ he was for coming to such a magnificent ballet so late. He stared back stoically until one by one, the curious gazes made their way back up to the stage and the dancers.

Odette was a slim, delicately made figure in white tulle and ribbon. Her hair was tied back in the traditional bun, but he saw a wisp of black hair stubbornly escape the hold to curl at her cheek. _Foreign_, he thought. The main dancer was foreign. So this was the special _someone_ the stranger had brought flowers for. He watched her pirouette and thought, not of the simple elegance of her movements, but of the powdered white skin and coral-painted lips that defined her face.

The audience gave a collective murmur of appreciation when she arched her back, bringing both arms above her head in perfect curves. He lifted his eyes to the dip of her waist, the subtle bend of her back, and remembered a girl who once wished to dance for the Imperial Ballet, who once stilled his heart when she twirled around him, laughter in her eyes.

And with a start, he realized that Odette was far better than Momo had ever been.

* * *

"Tōshirō!"

He turned at the call of his name, cursing himself for lingering just a moment too long after the performance _(he had stayed in the hopes of seeing the stranger once more, to ask if, perhaps, those flowers had done any good)_. And now he was caught in the brightly lit hallway by a friend who was no longer a friend, only barely an idea of something more. "Momo." He acknowledged in turn as she skidded to a breathless stop in front of him.

"I thought you weren't coming! I went to take a seat five minutes before the start of the ballet when I didn't see you. I'm glad you ended up taking the ticket." She smiled at him expectantly, and he suddenly felt like there was no longer any energy in his body with which to fuel his words.

He was tired. So very tired. "Thank you, Momo." The words of gratitude tasted like sand in his mouth. "I really enjoyed the show. I'm sorry you had to go through so much trouble to procure a ticket for me." These were the words that she wanted to hear, so he said them, for her sake.

"It wasn't any trouble at all, Shiro." She beamed, unaware of the turning of his stomach at her use of his nickname. "In fact, Sōsuke was given three tickets when he actually asked for two to begin with. His business partners were apparently really eager for him to see what true Soviet art was like." She frowned at his indifferent expression and tugged on his jacket. "Listen to me! Did you like Swan Lake?"

He sighed, eager to leave but unable to. "I enjoyed it quite a bit." The words, though genuine, fell flat to his ears. He hoped she wouldn't notice.

She didn't. "It _was_ nice. Odette was rather lovely, I don't know why they didn't decide to cast her for the role originally. Apparently, the lead dancer took ill just today with a fever—it's the weather, you know—so they had to scramble for another dark-haired dancer who knew the role of Odette in the Imperial Ballet."

"Who was scrambling?" The pleasant, low voice sounded like an alarm in Hitsugaya's head. As if by magic, Sōsuke materialized by Momo's side, one arm coming up to wrap around her slim waist.

Momo turned, a brilliant smile lighting her face. It was a smile that had once made him unbend from the cold personality he possessed. "The director of the ballet, of course. They were in a downright panic looking for a substitute Odette. For a stand-in, I thought she was absolutely wonderful. It's a shame that nobody knows her name."

"Yes, dear. Quite the shame, indeed." Aizen murmured before turning his gaze upon the unwilling participant of the conversation. "Is this 'Shiro'?" And though Momo had missed the Hitsugaya's wince when she had spoken his nickname, Aizen was far too observant to let the sudden flinch go unnoticed. "Pardon me. I shouldn't have used her childhood name for you. Hitsugaya, was it?"

He nodded once, tight-lipped. "Nice to meet you."

Aizen smiled and graciously offered his hand for a handshake, which was taken after a brief moment of hesitation. "Same here. Momo speaks fondly of you."

Hitsugaya mustered up a half-grimace, half-smile and withdrew his hand. "I am sure. Now if you'll excuse me, I have someone to talk to. I must bid you both a good evening." He cast a glance at Momo's disappointed expression. "I am sure that we will meet again."

He didn't wait for a response for either of them, choosing instead to stride swiftly away from the hallway and into the biting chill of Leningrad's winter.

"Not one for words, is he?" Aizen remarked softly, contemplative gaze still trained on the swinging door.

"No." Momo admitted slowly, sadly. "He wasn't like this before. I wonder what happened."

Eyes thoughtful, her lover remarked, "I can think of a few reasons."

And despite all her coaxing and pleading, he remained staunchly silent on that topic for the rest of the night.

* * *

A hand caught at Hitsugaya's jacket before he managed to walk more than five steps past the napping ticket marker. He pivoted, caustic words already at the tip of his tongue, but quickly exchanged them for a genuine smile once he saw who had stopped him.

"Ah, you again!"

The amber-eyed stranger laughed. "Yes, me again. I wanted to say thank you again, for helping me out earlier. I'm sorry for rushing off so suddenly, but I didn't want to miss any part of the performance." He smiled sheepishly.

"No, I can understand. Your Odette was a sight to behold on the stage tonight. Speaking of which, I see your flowers are no longer in your arms. How did it go?"

A self-conscious smile stole its way across the stranger's lips. "It went really well. We haven't known each other for long, so I was really surprised when she took the flowers." He paused and then chuckled. "I'm sorry, I just realized I never told you my name. Kurosaki Ichigo."

Hitsugaya took the proffered hand and shook it firmly. "Hitsugaya Tōshirō. I'd prefer it if you called me by my surname."

Ichigo didn't question the reason behind the seemingly strange request. He went with it, recognizing that it wasn't his place to pry. "Do you want to meet her?" He asked, instead. "I think Rukia would be happy to make another friend in Leningrad. She lived for most of her life in Japan, and only just came to the Soviet Union for her dancing career."

"Is she still here?"

"She's in the changing rooms. No sane person would walk out this winter in only a ballerina costume." He winced at the thought. "If you wait for another five minutes, I told her to meet me outside. We were planning to stop by a place for a warm drink. You're free to join us."

Hitsugaya shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't. I have to work on some paperwork for work. Coming here to watch Swan Lake was a bit of a luxury break for me. " His words were sincere and his expression apologetic. "Perhaps some other time?"

Ichigo nodded. "Definitely some other time, then. Swan Lake will be showing for at least a couple more times." He dug into a jacket pocket roughly for a scrap of paper and a pen, grimacing at the feel of something that felt like vodka _(but hopefully wasn't)_. "Here's my address. Just write me whenever you have some time, and I'll see if I can drag Rukia away from dance long enough to meet you."

"Deal."

He would regret turning down the invitation much, much later—later, when Rukia would no longer be just a name but a person.

And then still later…

* * *

It was two weeks later that Hitsugaya finally found the time (and energy) to write a letter to Ichigo telling him about a possible free Saturday evening. The response came two days later in neat script unusual for a male and included an address to a part of Leningrad he had little occasion to visit before. Little occasion, because it was the part associated with the Western world and the up-and-coming vivacious America.

Oh, he had heard the rumors. Basements that functioned like clubs, open until the early hours of morning with the latest trending styles and music from France or the States _(New Orleans or something equally bizarre sounding)_. Strictly against Soviet rules. Everything was about national pride these days, unification of Soviet spirit against the common enemy. _Soviet_ music. _Soviet_ writings. He wouldn't be surprised if the next headlines on newspapers declared a new _Soviet_ weight-loss diet.

Long live the motherland. Huzzah.

He squinted at his reflection in the dusty mirror, scowling at the unruly mess of white that was his hair. His condition was genetic—both his father and mother, before their deaths in a freak accident years ago, had started having their hair whiten before their 20's. He had been no different. He was only thankful that at least now, his head was entirely white instead of the embarrassing half-black, half-white monstrosity he had suffered for years through.

Casting one last, unsure glance at his conservative outfit, Hitsugaya shrugged on his coat and looped his scarf around his neck. He kept Ichigo's note in his hands, in case he somehow found himself wandering into a different area than intended.

It would do him no good to get lost.

* * *

She was dressed in white.

From his position, he couldn't see her clearly—just her image, weaving back and forth between the other dancing couples. A teen with slicked back hair was sitting in the back, his lips to a dirty saxophone, sultry notes permeating the small space. The crowd parted briefly to let him catch a glimpse of a sharply dressed Ichigo raising his arm to twirl her in a graceful circle before catching her in an embrace.

Standing just in front of the door, with his back against rusty metal, Hitsugaya felt horribly out of place. Yet despite his unease, he remained, teal eyes unerringly trained on the pirouetting figure in white. The subtle dip of her neck, the brush of black hair against a pale, exposed shoulder, the gentle flow of the bottom of her dress as it floated around her knees.

She leaned forward and Ichigo cupped her chin lovingly to plant a kiss on her lips.

Watching them, Hitsugaya felt himself seized with a sudden, nearly tangible feeling. For a moment, he too, could taste her crisp, clean scent on the tip of his tongue. For a moment, he too, could feel the soft press of a pliant body against his. The sensations at once repulsed and fascinated him. But he was a practical man, and his brief moment of inexplicable dreaming disgusted him. For him, there would only be Momo. There had only ever been Momo.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, Hitsugaya made his way through the dozen or so swaying dancers on the worn wooden floor to the pair he was supposed to meet. He made it a good ten steps before Ichigo caught sight of him and gestured in the direction of an unoccupied lopsided table with three equally lopsided stools. He changed directions accordingly and waited on one of the rickety seats with a contemplative frown on his face. What in the world had possessed him to actually take Ichigo's invitation seriously? He was Hitsugaya. Sensible, no-nonsense, paperwork-killing Hitsugaya. This wasn't him—whatever this was. The scent of cheap vodka, the greasy guy with the saxophone, the free spirit of the place. It wasn't him. This wasn't what he did.

He should have set up the place. Or better yet, he shouldn't have bothered writing to a man he barely knew to go to a place he knew even less. This was stupid. He could have…

"Hitsugaya, glad you came!" Ichigo commented easily, sliding into one of the two remaining stools with practiced movements. "This is Odette, or should I say, Kuchiki Rukia." He grinned as Rukia slapped him impatiently on the arm in a gesture for him to move a bit to the side, so she could have some room to sit without being barraged on all sides by dancers. There was nothing graceful about her, then. For a moment, she reminded Hitsugaya of Momo, back when they were just street urchins in Japan, with talk of war in the air. He blinked and the image dissolved, like a mirage.

"Nice to meet you." He said stiffly, glancing up to meet her gaze for a brief second before dropping away again. There was something about her that was off-putting. Her eyes were a strange shade of blue. If he turned the right way and the light of the fire caught her face at a certain angle, her stare would burn indigo. "I'm Hitsugaya, as Ichigo has no doubt already told you." He paused awkwardly, raising a finger absentmindedly in a gesture for the overly painted waitress to bring a glass of vodka to him. "You were…that is to say, you performed quite well when I went to see you."

She arched an eyebrow at his comment and chuckled. "There's no need to be so formal. I'm glad you liked the production." She leaned over and jabbed Ichigo in the ribs playfully, eyes twinkling by the dim lights. "And I'm not Odette, regardless of what Ichigo over here says. At least, I wasn't supposed to be. I'm sure Soviet gossip that night managed to reach your ears. The lead ballerina fell ill—she was the original Odette. I was just a temporary replacement." She shrugged as if the concept of being a substitute didn't bother her. "I'm just happy that people enjoyed themselves regardless."

He lifted his glass in a toast, lips curled into a sardonic smile. "Indeed."

And for a brief moment, this was all bearable. For a moment, she was a vision in white at his table and he _wasn't_ a jaded man from his first love, sitting on a worn stool with vodka sliding down his throat. For a moment, there _wasn't_ a handsome figure in black sitting next to her, strong fingers casually interlaced with her delicate ones.

For a moment _(a single, precious, stolen moment)_, the past ceased to exist.

* * *

_Four hours later, with the moon hanging round and full in the sky, Hitsugaya's nerveless fingers would finally find the keyhole to his apartment door. He would stumble to his bed, nearly tripping over his own feet, articles of clothing littering the floor with each additional step forward. _

_And his dreams, though vague and blurry, would be whiter than white. _

Odette.

_He would wake well into the afternoon the next day, one hand clutching his head in pain. _

She had…

_The throbbing would chase away his memories._

_

* * *

_

**-to be continued-**


	3. bitter, bitter

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Bleach. What else is new?

**Summary: **She never meant to consume them. He never meant to consume her. But sometimes, only violence can undo violence.

**Pairings: **Ichigo/Rukia, implied past Kaien/Rukia (if you squint super hard)

**Author's Note: **Written for the IchiRuki FC at BA in response to the Halloween themed event. This was actually entirely based on **pikeish's** drawing, Futility (check it out on DeviantArt), for the same event. It's been a long time since I've written, huh? That's what college life does to you. Hopefully, I'll be able to update my older stories soon.

**Bitter, Bitter  
**_is the taste of your lover_

**I.**

He gets the call at 10:17 am in the middle of math class.

It shouldn't mean much, this call, except it does. It means everything. It means a new job, a new play of the dice, a new night for hunting. He casually flips the phone's cover over in his lap, hidden beneath the creaky desk. The other end is silent, but this too, is routine. Ishida will never speak unless Ichigo says something first—it's an easy way to make sure that the wrong person isn't getting the information. He slips his backpack over his shoulder nonchalantly, and makes to stand up.

He waits for it. That question.

"Kurosaki, and just _where_ do you think you're going?"

His teacher, Na—something or other _(he can't remember, doesn't bother to remember)_ turns to look at him with a disapproving frown marring her otherwise young face. This is his 9th unexcused absence from class. Even a dimwit for a teacher would recognize that something wasn't quite right by now. The rest of the class waits in expectant silence for his answer. He can feel the weight of their gazes _(heavy)_ on his back, trailing down his spinal column like skeletal fingers grazing vertebrae.

Switch on the shit-eating grin. Switch it on. "Ah, sorry Teach, I've gotta run. Family business, you know?" She actually doesn't, but it's never mattered before. "I'll catch up on the assignments and explain everything later."

She doesn't look convinced, but neither does she try to stop him when he strolls right out the classroom door. Some guy has the audacity to whisper _Bullshit_ as he walks past. He cuts the idiot a side-glance, nothing more, just a glance, and doesn't look back to see what it's reduced him to.

It isn't until ten minutes later, leaning against the jacked up brick wall of some vandalized building, that he bothers to speak into the phone, cradling it against the spot between his neck and his shoulder. "Yo, Ishida. Details?"

The voice that comes back is slightly condescending and nasally in a way that is unique to the Detailer. "Kurosaki-kun, I really must insist on you creating some _plausible_ excuses for when you have to leave class like this. Family business?" There's a dry cough on the other end of the line, borderline amused. "For a Hunter, I'd expect you to have better imagination."

"Shut up," but Ichigo says it fondly, nonetheless. "You can't be harping on my imagination when I've been missing literature class so damn much. Now get on with it. Stop trying to distract me from my job, because it really isn't working."

Ishida's sigh is long-suffering. Ichigo thinks he must be at his svelte apartment, leaning against that leather chair of his with his left hand pinching the bridge of his nose, like he always does when they're talking in person. "Demon. Female. Estimated age between one hundred and two hundred years. Small. _Fast_. We sent Chad last time to scout the situation out and possibly saves some lives, but he wasn't able to see anything happen. It took her ten minutes tops to get in and get out."

"Body count?" Ichigo asks this like he's asking how the weather is, or how the regional baseball team is doing this season. "Method?" This time, voice pitched slightly lower, anticipation peaking on the syllables. It's always about the method. Methods distinguish one demon from the next—they are calling cards of the supernatural world.

"Four in Karakura Town that we know of, something as high as fifteen in her previous city of residence. She got chased out by Tatsuki; that's how I was able to get the second figure. And her method of choice is something you'll really enjoy. I'll forward you the pictures of her last victim, I don't think I'll be able to describe it well enough."

"Tatsuki couldn't kill her?" Ichigo waits for the _tap tap_ of Ishida's keyboard to stop. "You're joking. Ishida, there are only a handful of us Hunters in this area, and I'm not being egoistical when I say that Tatsuki and I are the best. Hell, Tatsuki kicked my ass back when we were little kids still in training. What do you _mean_ by Tatsuki 'chased her out'?"

Ishida's voice is calm and collected. "I mean just that. Tatsuki was able to set up a barrier strong enough to prevent her from entering the city again after their fight progressed to the outskirts of Shibuya." There's a slight pause of reflection and a gentle _'hrm'_ that Ishida makes only when he's found some new, interesting piece of information. "Tatsuki says she's out of commission for at least a week. She didn't manage to land a hit on the demon, but she says to watch for the eyes and the heart."

Ichigo knows Tatsuki well enough to understand that in Tatsuki-language, out of commission for at least a week really means 'pummeled within an inch of her life.' He also knows that 'setting up a barrier' is really just 'last possible defense.' And that by setting up the temporary barrier, Tatsuki's intention was to send her demon straight to him to deal with.

And of course, knowing Tatsuki, her advice is as vague as ever. She's telling him to go in as blind as she did, knowing the basics through their Detailers, and figuring out the rest as they go.

"Ishida?"

"Yes?"

"Give me the rest of the information through email, I'm heading back to my place now. For some reason, I feel like I'm not supposed to be bringing a firearm with me on this one."

"Of course."

* * *

**II.**

The picture staring back at him in hi-res on his new computer (courtesy of Ishida) is grotesque in its simplicity. The victim's eyes are closed, the face relaxed, showing none of the stress that it really should on the verge of being killed by a demon. That part is strange, Ichigo decides. He's never met a victim of a demon who's died with a peaceful expression. The neck (usually a favorite for demons) is untouched.

He wishes the same could be said for the guy's chest.

The left side is completely fucked up. He can see incision marks around the gaping hole, marks from when a knife or some other blade had gone in with surgical precision, cutting away skin, tissues, muscle, lung to get at the prize. It isn't difficult at all to identify what the demon was after. The heart of the man is missing. There's a delicate, red handprint on the hipbone of the deceased—all thin fingers and small palm. It's an elegant mark on a very much coarse piece of art.

The sight hits him square in the ribs, catches his breath and squeezes it. He _knows_ why that handprint is there. He _knows_ where that heart is.

_She leans over the dead body languidly, and plucks the cut heart from the confines of his chest with a grace that speaks of nobility. The blood runs fresh over the pale skin of her arm. It runs warm. She parts her mouth, reveals gleaming teeth—sharp to the touch, sharp to the sight, and sinks into the messy organ. _

_She feasts. And the blood is sweet, the tissue is bitter, the heart is completely necessary to consume. When she is done, she licks her lips dry (the crimson color is still there, it flushes her porcelain cheeks), and places her stained hand on the exposed hipbone of her last conquest. _

_It's a mark as much as it is a last, loving caress. _

When the vision fades from his eyes, his temples are throbbing in agony. Forget calling card. This is a challenge, a subtle invitation. She wants him to come for her. Why else would she place a memory into a picture just for his sake? He waits for the pounding to subside a bit before closing the image and opening up Ishida's latest update.

The information is solid. She's attracted to the nightlife. She's a fan of costume parties. Her preferred victims are usually male, ages eighteen to twenty-four. There's no record of her last killing spree other than the current year, meaning she's either never killed before now _(unlikely, considering the cleanliness of each death), _or she kills in long cycles for reasons of her own. She has raven black hair, with a stray bang sweeping past one eye, and unnaturally pale skin. She carries no weapons.

Ichigo's eyebrows go up at the last tidbit of information. Demons that don't carry weapons are the worst to go up against, because it means they're of the rare type who inherit certain…_abilities_. Abilities that render the use of weapons obsolete in their case. He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, mulling over Ishida's info.

He'll bring an edged weapon. Firearms are too easy for demons with abilities to manipulate. He learned that lesson early on, when some freak had completely reversed the direction of his bullet and scraped the surface of his left thigh with it.

Small, edged weapon. A dagger, perhaps. Something simple.

He doesn't want to give her any unnecessary advantages, after all.

* * *

**III.**

Ichigo decides on an antique dagger purchased from Urahara's shop, in the end. He slides it into the sheath attached to the left side of his favorite, worn, baggy pair of pants. It feels odd to have a knife there, when normally, he goes hunting with the solid weight of a gun tucked snugly into the same area.

Yuzu picked the costume for him. He's supposed to be a cross between a well-bred Englishmen and a crass pirate of the European seas. The entire outfit is dark, charming in the right light, and menacing in the wrong one. He isn't looking to blend in this time. He wants her to see him, to go after him, to try to take him down.

He hasn't felt a thrill like this in a long time.

The club he eventually sidles into is a popular one, edgy in a way that only the more experimental clubbers really enjoy. It's Halloween, which means the entrance to the club is obscured by cobwebs that feel real to the touch, and spiders that crawl along the doorpost. Inside, the lighting is dim, casting a faint orange glow that rebounds off the peeling paint on the walls.

The furniture is gothic, from the swaying, black chandeliers hanging from the ceiling to the rigid, bare frames of the gargoyle chairs placed in front of a warm fireplace. To his right, a couple dressed as Frankenstein and a minx of a devil are sliding bodies against one another. Her skirt rides up enough for him to see more than he really wants to.

There's no shame tonight. And for some reason, everyone here is an exhibitionist.

The mirror to his right, set on a counter, flickers for a second. Just enough for him to see a girl dressed in similar dark shades with a single oleander woven into her hair pass by. _This is her_. His instinct screams, but when he looks at the mirror again, she's gone.

Someone brushes past him, the soft skin of fingerpads trailing teasingly on his lips. He knows it's her again. He knows she's using her speed to mindfuck with him. He's surprised to find that he doesn't give a damn about it, either. She's the touch on his arm, the whisper of steel as she fingers the knife at his side, the wind that whips his cloak in an otherwise still atmosphere.

"Stop playing around." He doesn't expect her to listen, but she does.

The next time he blinks, she's over by the dark hallway, violet eyes glimmering by candlelight. She raises a black, lace-covered arm and beckons. He follows her, heartbeat thudding in his ears.

Too late, he remembers Tatsuki's warning to watch for the eyes.

Too late.

* * *

**IV.**

She guides him down the winding corridor to an empty room with large windows half-covered by lush, sweeping curtains of a copper red. A bright candle set within a glass cage is the only source of light. But it's enough for him to see her—all of her. Her dress is a Victorian style one, cut short so that the end of it brushes slightly against the middle part of her thighs. She's wearing matching lace patterns on her arms and legs, black swirling designs too intricate to be manufactured. She has her hood up now, the mahogany cloak barely concealing her telltale horns as a demon _(fooling non-Hunters into thinking it's part of the costume, part of the fun)_, and leaving only her burning, violet gaze to look at.

He isn't fooled. But he can't look away either. His hand won't move to take out the dagger by his side.

She laughs. The sound seems to swallow the entire room. "Well. Well, well, well…I didn't expect a Hunter to be after me so soon." She gracefully slides the hood from her head, and his gaze is caught on the fully blossomed oleander carefully placed in her inky hair. How fitting. "Let's have some fun."

Suddenly, he can move again. He shoots a venomous look in her direction, and she replies with a smirk. Her ability is to _control_. Ichigo is less than thrilled with this piece of information. Controlling is a strong ability, an abnormal ability even in the realm of demons. Her bearing, her stature, the way she walks and moves like there will never be any obstructions to her path—she's a noble among demons. A queen among monsters.

He deftly unsheathes the knife from its place clasped to his belt, and twirls it. He can't look at her in the eyes. If he does, he's dead. He focuses on the delicate point of her chin instead, feels for the currents in the air, and _shifts_. He ends up behind her, one arm over her neck to hold her, the other hand with the dagger lifted against her cheek. He means to cut through the fine skin there, to cut all the way down to the bone and then some. To cut so that she'll never be able to regenerate that part again, so that no mortal will ever want to look her in the face again, and will never fall to her powers.

The knife stops at a shallow cut. She directs his actions without even turning around, forcing the knife to curve here in a cut, to connect with that line there. When she's done making him mark her skin with the blade, she disappears from his hold like water. He lifts his eyes and sees she's carved a heart for itself onto her face. He watches still, as she raises her fingers to smear the blood from the cut onto her lips. He can't look away—doesn't know how to look away.

"So…Hunter."

"Ichigo," he finds himself saying hollowly.

She rewards him with an amused chuckle. "Fine, I'll humor you, then. Let's play at these wonderful games that humans do. My name is Kuchiki Rukia," she pauses to dip into a low curtsy. His eyes follow her as she goes down, the gentle dip of her waist and the shift of her slim legs as they move back into standing position. "Pleasure to meet you, Ichigo."

The way she says his name, he is convinced, should be a sin. It's like a calling, like some disastrous siren calling right before he smashes his head into the rocks that she sits upon, right before he crushes his spine against the unforgiving angles in his attempt to reach her.

He swallows with some difficulty, and tries to focus on the job at hand. "Stop fucking with me, and let's have a proper fight. I'm the Hunter of Karakura Town," he closes his eyes briefly and calls upon years of concentration to calm himself. When he opens his them again, his voice is steady—determined. He knows his irises are glowing amber to match her violet. "And you're the demon that I will kill, that I _must_ kill."

She tilts her head to the side in acknowledgment, and opens her arms as if in waiting. "Then come, Hunter. Let's see the best that you can do."

He gives it everything. He gives _her_ everything. Every single dirty trick in the book, every single move he's ever been taught, everything. She knows it all, dodges it all. By the end of his attack, she's suffered only a small scratch on her left arm. The tides shift; they turn.

She paralyzes him with her stare and walks close _(too close)_. She steals the dagger from his grip and uses it to ceremoniously cut away at his shirt. She is precise. The tip of the blade always comes close to his skin, but never actually digs into it. He wishes she'd stop teasing him, wishes she'd just cut him open, eat his heart already like she's done with all the ones before.

But she doesn't. Once his shirt is in tatters, she gives the knife back to him.

And now is when he bleeds. That dark purple burn in her eyes lifts his hand and commands it to draw a thin line of red across his chest. It bleeds sluggishly. She frowns. He knows she's been meaning to cut his left side, but he won't let her. He fights her for control. So she tries again, the flames in her eyes increasing. He puts the last of his spirit into diverting her. He doesn't know that his amber gaze is now inhumanly bright, bursting to the seam with his latent power. The knife struggles mid-air before landing violently to cut across the bridge of his nose, this time a little deeper than the one on his chest. The wound is raw and biting.

She pushes him to the ground, ducks under the arm holding the knife. Like this, they could almost pass for lovers. His mouth twitches into an amused smirk at that thought. They're the furthest things from lovers. He doesn't have any strength left, so he looks straight into her intent gaze, catches her midway with his eyes. Her skirt rides up around her waist, and he spies the obvious corner of a knife sheathed to the garter of her stockings.

"Detailer said you didn't carry weapons," he manages to say.

She smiles and reaches back to slide the fine blade from its place. "He was right. This isn't a weapon to be used against people. It's one that's used against demons."

He doesn't hide his surprise.

She switches the dagger in his hold for her own. "Go on," she whispers. "Go on. You know what I want you to do, what you want yourself to do."

He brings it down to her chest, slices the pure skin away to the heart. She doesn't make a sound of pain, just watches him with trembling arms supporting herself above him and teeth biting into paling lips. "I'm not going to be the same again," he murmurs. He thinks he's trying to get her to change her mind.

She manages a weak smile for him. "You remind me…of someone special. He used to be a Hunter. I…was driven mad by others of my kind, nobles who wished to consume the Kuchiki House. When I came to my senses fifty years later, it was the taste of his heart on my tongue that burned the strongest."

He thinks he understands. She wants someone's heart to erase that bitter taste from her mouth, if just for a little while. The taste of consuming that one piece of your lover you loved the most.

"Go on," she urges him again when he pauses, the knife to his side and his hands cupped as if in prayer. "If you take this, if you do this, you'll gain my abilities. Protect your town with this."

He holds her heart in his hands, afraid to rip it out. It pulses, steady. "And you? What about you, Rukia?"

"I'll grow a new one. I'll become a new person." The words are reassuring, even though he knows he shouldn't care.

She kisses him as he pulls her heart out. The taste of it on his lips is phantom compared to the sticky sweetness of her heart as he devours it—hating himself every second for doing it.

When he stands up, his wounds are already fading, the product of her blood mixing with his. He stands over her limp body, and bends down to carry her in his arms. In pseudo-death, she's beautiful.

He kisses her on the forehead in thanks for this new power.

When she wakes again, he knows they'll meet once more.

* * *

**V.**

They do meet.

Fifty-one years later.

Ichigo is the same as before, her blood bringing his aging process to a grinding halt. She, in her eternal youth as a demon, looks no different than that night so long ago.

They stand in a cemetery, yards apart.

"Is it bitter?" He asks, hands in his pockets, gaze tilted towards the night sky.

"No."

"Good," he says, and means it too. "Come with me."

The silence is long. When he finally turns to look at her, he sees that immortal gaze once more. And like before, he can't look away.

"Why?" She asks, finally. Her fingers are clasped around the handle of a knife that he recognizes as his own—that rusty relic of years past.

"To pay back the bastards who drove you mad," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. He doesn't tell her that he still has her dagger, tucked safely between his shirt and his skin, in that area closest to his heart.

She doesn't move. She doesn't respond either.

He extends a hand towards her, and looks at the delicate tip of her chin like the first time he saw her. He's afraid of what he'll find in her lilac eyes.

When the careful, light weight of her hand settles into his palm, he interlaces their fingers together.

They run.


End file.
